Manhattan Story
by jennii.b
Summary: In the original story, Detective Michael McCann's character is a placefiller to move along the plot. BUT his brand of sarcasm & dedication deserves its own story. (Semi-spoiler: pay attention to the warning for Chapter 3, please!) (M rating for some language, mature themes, and some violence)
1. apartment dwelling

((_This is really a Thomas Crown Affair, 1999 version, fanfic. Failing an appropriate fanfic designation for that movie — - an oversight I'm working to correct - - I thought that a fan of Ian Fleming's writing and the movies that further tell his stories would appreciate the gritty, testosterone-heavy hero in mine. Michael McCann's not a suave, debonair Bond. Instead, he's a very real, very human cop who's seen too much and lives with it every day… He respects women, although they're a very real puzzle for him, and he respects anybody with half a fucking brain.))_

The doorknocker sounded at Cami's apartment thirty minutes earlier than the usual fifteen minutes early.

Groaning to herself she checked out the monitor for the surveillance camera her father had installed in the hallway. Unobtrusively, of course, because the neighbors probably wouldn't have appreciated it. Although paranoia had proven time and again that the people coming to get you would wait until you opened your peephole and then pop your ass full of lead.

Not that there was anyone out to get her. And especially not in Washington Heights, NY. But old habits die hard and her dad had served too many years in companies listed as "Tactical Materials Support Group" on the books in D.C.

Like father, like daughter.

So the peephole was there for looks and the daughter now rolled her eyes at the image of the man waiting with some modified form of patience in the hallway.

"What do you want?" she asked as she snapped open the door. She hadn't unlatched the chain and Michael'd only heard one set of tumblers.

"What are you wearing?" he asked, distracted by the sight of black lace and straps and bare feet.

"None of your business," she ground out. "What are you _doing _here?"

"This isn't safe, you know," he told her, reaching out to finger the chain.

She rolled her eyes. Of course it wasn't safe. It was for show. The electronic locks with the silent keypad and remote tucked in her nightstand drawer were safe. This was for appearances sake.

She tuned back in since the man's mouth was moving.

"I thought I'd just stop by, check on you...you know."

"You're not my partner and you're not my LT and you're not my Captain," she began. The words became garbled as she shut the door and slid the chain free. "Thank you and go away," she told him when she opened the door.

"Okay. How 'bout this, then? Can I get you anything? Soup? OJ? Antidepressants?"

She was wearing a slip and nothing else. Her feet were bare on the polished wood floor of the entryway. The toes were painted a shimmery gold. Her skin was brushed with something else that glimmered and shone slightly in the dim light. It was all he could do not to run his finger along her shoulder and taste it to see if she really was too good to be true. That was what he was using to distract himself from the fact that the slip had some stretch to it and clung to the shapely waist and hips, just grazing her thighs. And higher - - dear sweet baby Jesus and all the saints and the good Lord above in heaven, _that's_ the way women were supposed to be built - - the lace demi-cup bra she wore beneath the slip lifted and pushed and presented everything just _so_. It really wasn't fair.

"I'm fine, actually. Thanks. I have no lingering regret about shooting the guy. He deserved it. He deserved it the first time a uniform said 'police, open up.' He really deserved it when he turned around and took a shot at the guy following him out onto that fire escape. Then he really, really deserved it when he grabbed that kid and somebody else told him to drop it. When he looked twice at my car it had to end. You know how it goes."

McCann laughed. "I was the guy coming out of the window."

"Hmph. Well, you're welcome then."

She held the open door suggestively.

He ignored her and wandered into the living room. The apartment building was shoddy. The view was crappy. Her place was an oasis. With a wet bar that was probably teak and sporting liquor more comfortable on the top shelf in classy bars.

"Want a drink?" he asked as he picked up a bottle.

She gave up. "There's ice in the freezer. I have to finish getting ready."

McCann allowed for that and all its implications. And leaned backward to sneak a peek as she stepped down the hallway toward her bedroom.

Black silk was drawn up to cover the satin.

"You really are okay with taking down the perp?" he asked.

"Yup. He had ample opportunity to surrender under his own power and only chose to exacerbate the situation. Before it got too far out of control he needed to be dropped."

He wandered to her entertainment system. She had it all, of course. CDs. No tapes. No vinyl. He was a vinyl man himself. The disks didn't have the soul that records did. There was no romance in sliding a piece of plastic into a machine that was going to do all the work. Not like laying that thick black disk onto the turntable, setting it in motion and gently finessing the needle so that there was no rough, no scratch, only smooth like a salve for your soul.

"How'd you know you wouldn't hit the hostage?" he asked.

She stepped backward, in the act of fastening one earring into place, the heels she had on clicking and then stopping as she leaned back to look at him. The look in her eye said that there had only been one forgone conclusion. He shrugged.

"Why were you in a uniform?" she asked him as she moved into the bathroom.

She was already a sight. If she amped it up anymore he was going to embarrass himself in at least one of several ways. The dress was probably a simple black sheath on anybody else's body. The long legs had gone several inches longer with the aid of the sheer hose - - please, God, let it be stockings…maybe with garters? - - and the sexy heels. The neck that already begged for a man's teeth now competed with long, dangly twists of metal and stones.

"Um..." What had she asked Uniform. That was it. "I'd been in court, then the press conference. They like us to wear the black to shit like that until you hit a certain rank. And even then some. Then I got the call that Self was approaching the building. It didn't seem like much of a plan to change clothes before I met the team there. How'd you get in on it?"

"I was in the neighborhood when the 10-108 went out and called in."

"You had your gun?"

"I was on company time, yeah I had my gun."

She came out of the bathroom with the sides of her hair pulled back and up, leaving a thick mane of waves and loose curls sliding down the center of her back. She'd done something smoky around her eyes, something glistening and wet-looking to her mouth.

Yum.


	2. hallway confrontation

It was all he could think of as the knocker slammed again.

"I need you to look at some pictures for me," McCann said, frowning in confusion as she stalked quickly back to her bedroom instead of toward the front door. "You want me to get that?" he asked as he gestured over his shoulder to the door.

"No," she snapped.

He quick-stepped it. He had to know what the deal was.

And damn, but he was impressed when he saw the security camera and alarm remote.

"Smart girl," he purred.

"Cami?" a voice called. McCann watched the good-looking guy test the door, then stick his head inside. "Cami? You ready? The door's open, baby."

McCann lifted his eyebrows. Cami's rose as well, more out of frustration than amusement. "Lawyer, right?"

"I'm going to kill you," she told him as she looked up into his face.

"Hey, I'm Michael McCann," he told the man now coming down the hallway. He leaned out, extending his hand. He was aware of how comfortable he looked, blocking Cami in the bedroom, drink melting in his left hand. "Ryan Sinclair, right? I've seen you argue. That's some good work you do."

Cami smiled at the other man. "Detective McCann was just leaving." Sinclair's face was pretty good, but then he was a lawyer, so that but him head and shoulders above normal humans.

"It's nice to meet you," he said. He turned to Cami. "If I'm interrupting-"

"No!" she gushed.

"No, no man," McCann assured him. "We work together. I was just here, you know. Going over case stuff. Shall we?"

He gestured toward the living room. Like some benevolent master. Cami's teeth ground together so hard he should be able to feel the crushing pressure.

"How's the case load, Ryan?" he asked, again waving his arm so that the younger man sat down on the couch. "Not working you too hard are they?"

Sinclair looked helplessly up at Cami, who leaned against the doorjamb and glared at McCann.

"N-n-no, sir," he said. He looked back and forth between them. "Are you two related?" he asked hesitantly.

Cami shook her head. McCann beat her to an answer.

"No. No. Nothing like that. We just work together. I'm thinking of stealing Cami here for my own personal squad. Special Investigations. Can't have any kind of known relationship and work together like that. You got me?" he winked.

Cami came up. She was going to kill him. Beat him dead in front of witnesses and then hang him from her balcony.

"I'm just going to ease on out of here," McCann told them, digging into his breast pocket. "I'll leave these for you to look through. You tell me which ones ring a bell. Whenever you get done tonight," he told her. "No rush."

He held out his drink so that Sinclair could take it and walked to the door. "Call me," he mouthed, miming a phone with a hand to his ear as he let himself out.

"Excuse me," Cami told her date.

McCann was waiting outside, leaning against the wall to the side of her door, pretending to try to stifle laughter.

"What the fuck was that?" she asked him, slapping at his chest and shoulder. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"What? I was nice. I like him. He has a lot of potential." He lifted one brow and shook his head. "Philadelphia Sinclairs. Lot of money there. Lot of success. You could really do worse."

She landed a solid punch low on his gut. "You are messed up. Was that funny to you? You know exactly what kind of impression you were making!"

"Then why are you out here with me instead of in there reassuring Mr. Harvard Law that he's your number one man?" he taunted.

"Because I wanted to let you know that I was not impressed. This is not over. I _will_ exact my revenge."

"Why didn't you stop me, Camara O'Neil? Why not stop me dead in my tracks? Shut me down?" His voice was serious. His face had taken on a hard edge.

She didn't have an answer. She'd stood there, watching him manipulate the situation. And instead of shutting the door, locking him out, and rolling her eyes like he was one more in a series of annoyances she'd stalked out after him.

Half a heartbeat later his mouth was fused with hers and she was beyond rational thought. Just that fast. It wasn't a kiss. It was too carnal, too furious for such a benign name. His hands gripped hers, linking fingers and trapping them against the wall beside her hips. His body pressed hard and heavy against hers, the paneling behind them the only thing that kept her from going down. And just as suddenly he was off of her again, walking away - - stalking - - down the hall toward the elevator. And she was left to brace herself until her breathing resumed its normal course.

**. . . - - - - . . .**

**Not to interrupt the flow of a story, but….**

**There's a certain audience that won't appreciate the next chapter. And a certain audience that will be downright offended by it. It's not a rape fantasy, nor is it in any way, shape, or fashion acceptance of a man's dominance. Sex is a precious thing- - whether an outreach of love in the bonds of holy matrimony or a physical pursuit between two consensual adults for mutual pleasure. I'll naysay anyone who argues "she was asking for it," or "she liked it" or words to that effect. No means NO and it should be respected. That's not what happens here.**

**The violence in this Chapter 3 is purely fictional. And it's pretty explicit.**

**The story told between Cami and Michael is of two people who have difficult jobs…and it's a romance of mutual respect and affection. Chapter 3 is a stand-alone scene that can be skipped. The rest of their story still makes sense without it.**

**Chapter 3 is an aberration in my writing style. I don't know what dark abscesses it hints at, but it's there. **

**With the complete understanding that it might not suit you, **_**please feel free to skip to Chapter 4.**_

**Sometimes when I reread this story I do, too. Because sometimes Chapter 3 pushes the bonds of what I want to feel emotionally at the time.**

**Back to Manhattan…via Chapter 3 (with an M rating for strong sexual violence) or Chapter 4 (which is absolutely light-hearted and affectionate and fun).**


	3. apartment complexes (M)

**Not to interrupt the flow of a story, but….**

**There's a certain audience that won't appreciate the next chapter. And a certain audience that will be downright offended by it. It's not a rape fantasy, nor is it in any way, shape, or fashion acceptance of a man's dominance. Sex is a precious thing- - whether an outreach of love in the bonds of holy matrimony or a physical pursuit between two consensual adults for mutual pleasure. I'll naysay anyone who argues "she was asking for it," or "she liked it" or words to that effect. No means NO and it should be respected. That's not what happens here.**

**The violence in this Chapter 3 is purely fictional. And it's pretty explicit.**

**The story told between Cami and Michael is of two people who have difficult jobs…and it's a romance of mutual respect and affection. Chapter 3 is a stand-alone scene that can be skipped. The rest of their story still makes sense without it.**

**Back to Manhattan…**

**. . . - - - - . . . **

The next night he was back.

This time she knew what to expect and he got a full-on welcome. She opened the door, jerked him inside, shoved him against the wall, and slammed the muzzle of a gun under his throat.

"Do you have a problem figuring out where you're wanted and where you're not?" she hissed.

"Do you always answer the door like that?" he asked nonchalantly. It was like knocking on the door to the playboy mansion. This time she was wearing little gym shorts and a baseball t shirt with long pink sleeves that clung in all the right places and was cut so that an inch of skin at either side beckoned for a man's hands.

"This is _my_ home," she reminded him. Each syllable was emphasized with the jabbing of the gun harder against his jugular.

"Well I didn't expect to find Mr. Rogers," he spat back. Tired of the game he reached up, wrapping a steely hand around her wrist and moving to throw her weight, to pin her arm behind her back.

The move surprised her, so he got away with it. To an extent. Then he found her ducking and bending, throwing his stance so that he crashed against the opposite wall. Something fell and smashed, but she didn't see what. As long as he was going down he decided to take her with him and she ended up pinned to the floor by his considerable weight. McCann reached between their bodies to pry the gun from her hand, ignoring the clawing of the free one as she grappled blindly with him. Her hair was in her face, her breasts were pressed against the polished hardwood, and her rounded ass cradled his erection nicely, so after he got the gun away from her he checked the safety and sent it sailing into the other room. Then he trapped her free hand and concentrating on breathing for a fraction of a second.

At which point he really lost his mind, pressed himself against her, and groaned.

"You are a freak!" she told him, resuming her struggles again.

"Hey, I'm not the one who asked to play rough. I'm just trying to be accommodating again." He circled his hips into her again.

"Get off of me!"

"I'm almost afraid to," he told her. "You smell sooo good," he breathed into the tangle of hair.

"You're a pig," she told him, almost conversationally. "Is this how you initiate all your new guys or are you just forcing your attentions on me?"

"Found out about that transfer did you? And to my way of thinking, you opened your door to me two nights in a row wearing nothing but lingerie. If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it's probably a duck."

"This is assault," she reminded him.

"You say tomato..." He pulled the hand trapped between their bodies around so that it met the other and locked both wrists under his left hand. The right he let trail slowly down the side of her elbow, then the sensitive skin higher up on her arm, then down her ribcage to her side where his fingers curled around the fullness of her hip, dragging her more fully against him. "...I say tomato."

She swallowed hard. Half of her was pissed. Half of her was afraid. And she didn't even want to think about what it said about her personality that her heart was tripping along even faster. And that there was a flutter in her belly - - low in her belly - - that wasn't fear and wasn't anger.

"Still want to play rough?" he asked.

Then his gaze locked on the heavy china cabinet's clawed foot and inspiration struck.

"If only I had more hands..." he taunted softly, sliding the right back up her body, cupping the side of her full breast as he passed it. Then his she felt him moving over her. The next thing she knew he was slapping cuffs around one arm, then the other, and had flipped her over.

Which might have been a tactical error on his part since he had to let her up to move her.

Only, no, being strapped to a three-hundred pound hunk of wood made it pretty hard to do anything other than kick and twist and that was hard once a two-hundred+ pound man stretched back out on top of you.

"You're going to suffer for this, McCann," she threatened.

He honestly didn't hear her. He was kind of busy admiring his handiwork.

Her breasts jutted out at him. No bra. He had to figure that. The peaks were drawn up-begging for a man's hands, his mouth, teasing the pale pink pinstripes that ran down the shirt. His gaze was fascinated by what those breasts did to the shape of a straight line. Like a porn king had designed the shirt a strategic number of the tiny buttons were unbuttoned. And a line ran directly down the center of each rigid nipple. The cotton was pulled so tight that he could see every contour of the treats beckoning to him.

The way he'd thrown his leg over her thighs, the way the knee bent so that his leg doubled back and pressed down her claves left his aching dick against her thigh. His hand kneaded the flesh of her waist and he panted into her ear.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

"Do you have any idea what the sentencing mandates for rape charges are?" she shot back.

She thought he chuckled. "You say tomato..."

His mouth pressed a soft kiss to the corner of her jawline. His hand fingered the earlobe opposite him. When she jerked her head away he let the long fingers trail down her soft neck, playing over the slender collarbone, then toying with the first of the open buttons on her shirt. His fingertips skimmed up and down the flesh just inside the neckline. Cami closed her eyes and shook her head.

"No," she whispered as his hand moved, shifted just the slightest bit.

"No?" he asked as his hand crept up the arching mound of her breast. She shook her head again. But her body pressed upward of its own will as he cupped her. His thumb slid once, twice over the bud before moving down the slope. And, while her eyes stayed shut her breath came faster. When she licked her lips he nearly lost it. Lost more of it. Because this wasn't bad enough without rushing her.

So instead he let his fingers do the walking and slid back up to palm her breast. His knee slid sideways, coming between hers. He figured that she wouldn't appreciate him pointing out that her hips were undulating beneath him. It was a special kind of torture not to just fuck the hell out of her then and there.

"Stop," she begged, her lips falling apart, the breath panting out of her.

"I can't," he whispered. His mouth moved up her neck again and she let her head fall to the side. This time it seemed like less of a denial to him than an open invitation. His hand left her breast to ease down her torso, fluttering softly over her belly so that he could cup the mound beneath the pastel satin. His fingers searched lower, slid over the sensuous fabric to seek out the warmth between her thighs. Michael's blood pressure hit the roof.

"Jesus Christ," he moaned, moving to cover her.

"No," she begged. His hand held her trapped. His fingers slid over the damp material, a cruel parody.

"Bullshit," he told her. while his hand kept up the rhythm he'd created below, spreading her legs wider and teasing her, his mouth lowered to the fabric covered breast he'd thus far neglected.

"You can't do this," she cried out. It was less effective for the fact that she practically shoved her breast farther into his mouth. Her breath was almost sobs when he lifted his lips. His hands slid down to tug the panties down her hips. He didn't care if she was helping him or fighting him as he continued to nip and lick and suckle.

Free from that task, his hands skimmed back up to shove her shirt over her head. His mouth came down on top of hers, tongue delving deep, before she had a chance to protest. Then two long fingers slid inside her, testingly at first, then delving, driving her higher. She met him thrust for thrust, tongue and hand. As he felt the silken channel of muscle begin to clench, as he felt the tremors ripple over her body he moved again, kneeling between her legs to attack his fly one-handed.

"I want your hands on me," he demanded as he leaned back down to her. She nodded, emotion playing across her face, and he growled as he dug for the key to the cuffs. He shoved the shirt up, clear of the bracelets, and leaned over her, his full shaft dragging over her sensitive skin.

"God, now," he spat out, yanking his own shirt over his head and fastening his mouth on hers again. Savagely.

Her arms came around him, her hands drawing him against her, her breath coming as fast and ragged as his as he drew her legs up and slid into her hard and fast.

:Goddammit!" he shouted and withdrew as though burned.

Her eyes went wide and fear trickled in again at the sound of rage and edginess in his voice.

"Condom!" he told her as though she were stupid when he met her eyes. She had the gall to let her head fall back and laugh.

She wasn't laughing when he slammed into her again. It was a long time before either could do much more than grope and heave and taste each other.

Leaning up he nipped her jaw. "That was one hell of a second date," he told her.

She shoved at him. "We're not dating," she clarified as she bent to gather clothes. His were probably ruined. He deserved it.

"Meaningless sex?" he asked. "Gee, now I feel used. Cheap."

She cut her eyes at him. "You're lucky you're not dead or maimed or facing charges. This is not happening again."

That's what she thought. "Bet me tickets to next year's super bowl?" he asked, kneeling up to pull her hips closer again. She was going to be his fetish, he decided as he pressed his growing erection against her firm round ass.

"No, McCann," she scolded as one might scold a kitty. Like most of the pets he'd ever had, he ignored her.

"Bet me?" he mumbled, nibbling on her earlobe. He curled his arm around her and slid his fingers between the legs she clamped shut - - teasing the flesh beneath the curls that were still wet from the first time. It took very little coaxing to be able to shift her hips a bit and replace his hand with his dick. Then to bend her completely so that he could slide his dick into the hot silk he'd only recently vacated. It wouldn't dawn on him until the early hours of the next morning that he'd only used a condom the first time. Forget about the second and most definitely not when he insisted upon joining her in the shower before going over the photographs he'd dropped in her apartment.

**. . . - - - . . . **

**This chapter makes me question what's inside Cami and Michael (and as the author, what's inside myself) every single time I review it. I can't explain why what happens is okay in this instance, when I very vocally and demonstratively abhor violence toward women (actually, toward any innocent) and believe that rape is wrong. I only home that Michael McCann picked up on some vibe from Camara that makes it all right for him to ignore her pleadings and ravish her. Certainly she responded to him. And, in their world where violence can be very prevalent, I can't help but wonder why he would think it acceptable to do so. I hear a hundred red-neck, ignorant college-aged men saying "she was asking for it," or "she enjoyed it," when I see him continue to violate her against her wishes. I know that rape fantasy is very real…for both men and women…and that s&m and bondage are as well. This isn't intended to be that.**

**It's supposed to be raw. They're not prosy people. He'll vacillate between lover and his other roles of mentor and friend in the next chapters. He's never going to be the roses and candy hearts type.**

**But neither is she, which I had hoped to make unmistakably clear in the previous chapters. She is feminine. She likes soft things and silky things and shiny things. She wants to be held and caressed and appreciated. But there's a gritty essence to our heroine as well.**

**The point:**

**My apologies for this chapter to any who have lingering doubts.**

**It was a rare aberration to my norm.**

**Stick with Cami and Michael's story, though…**

**(And I'd appreciate any thoughts you have on the subject.)**


	4. potstickers, pasta, & picasso

Michael McCann sank onto the futon where Camara was picking the steamed peppers out of her sweet and sour chicken. Crunching happily she sighed when he trailed his hand up her bare leg. Sometimes going out was great, but nothing beat dinner in. Especially when there would be no dishes.

"Hey," he said after a few minutes of silent bliss during which some truly excellent kung pao chicken and beef teriyaki featured prominently. Never one to force a decision when indecision could reap such vast benefits they now had six quart boxes of their favorite Asian treats spread atop the comforter. Cami had begun shedding pieces of her uniform shortly after hitting the stairwell to their apartment. He was pretty sure that all of the important parts had made it in the front door, but nobody was perfect, so they might be replacing a couple of pertinent items here soon. "I caught a case this afternoon that's pretty messed up," he announced. "You're pretty good with art, right?"

The instant shock and horror on her face surprised him. "If you'd seen my last accident report you would not be asking that."

"I meant more recognizing it than creating it," he told her, shaking his head. As a matter of fact he _had _seen the report. Her partner had distributed it to most of their house earlier that week. Nobody knew they were dating-or some strange and twisted thing that resembled dating in its own weird and subjective way-so Leroy had felt comfortable poking a little fun. Hell, Michael had been raised in a big family made up of boys, boys, and more boys, so he'd have felt comfortable laughing at the mess even if someone had told him the Pope had died in the accident.

"That's terrifying. You caught an art case? Don't we have dedicated professionals for different kinds of theft?"

McCann shook his head. "Yours truly is the best we've got. The insurance companies usually provide their own geniuses to do the actual thinking on this kind of case."

"So?"

"So I don't like ours. So I'm talking to you."

Her face fell into serious mien. "Baby," she deadpanned. "What I know about art theft couldn't fill up the back of a business card."

"But you recognize some of the _big names_," he intoned.

"Just the ones everybody does. The famous Picassos and Monets and Salvatore Dalis and DaVinci's Mona Lisa and the Sistine Chapel and Michelangelo's David and stuff like that. I know that the stuff with the fat angel babies is usually called Raphaelite or Botticelli-"

"I thought Botticelli was a kind of pasta," Michael interrupted.

She smacked him on the shoulder. "You're interrupting my lecture."

"Yeah," he told her, stretching out to put his dinner on the nightstand. "Missing a whole lot there. So will you go over my notes with me and tell me what I'm missing?" he asked.

She stretched out beside him, running one hand up his waist to his chest while the other set her little white carton aside. "Sure thing, sweet pea. You got it."

McCann rolled, covering her with his rapidly over-heating body. She was down to her undies, the thick, cozy black socks she'd worn with her uniform, and the zippered sweatshirt that had been hanging behind his door for his morning jogs. It looked way better on her than on him. And, in his opinion, she'd look way better without it. So it was a while before they got around to cracking open his notebook and starting the piles and string connections graphs she'd eventually be infamous for creating.


	5. clinical consults

"How did you come to seek out my help?" the psychiatrist asked halfway through their first session.

"Michael came by your name and we checked you out," Cami told him hesitantly.

Michael came to the rescue. "I was talking to our priest at O'Malley's a couple of weeks ago. He recommended you, you accept PD insurance, it seemed like a match made in heaven."

"So you were actively seeking guidance at the time. Or it just came up that I do couple's counseling."

Michael shifted his head back and forth on his shoulders. "I guess we'd kind of talked about it. It's not that we don't talk. It's just that we can't seem to fix what's wrong with us," he volunteered.

"We'd thought about looking for something through the church. We're signed up for a retreat in the spring. But when your name came up it seemed like a waste not to try something now."

"And you've been trying for a baby the whole way through this?" the shrink asked.

Now Cami moved her jaw back and forth. "We didn't get back on the pill or anything, but it hasn't been the most romantic stretch of time for us. We've both had a couple of really consuming cases. Michael's taken on a lot of extra responsibility at the station." She shrugged. "Sometimes it just seems like we're rubbing each other the wrong way. That we don't know how to be easy with each other anymore. First it was trying to have a baby. And the pressure to just go for it all the time. Now?" Another shrug. She looked at Michael. He, too, lifted his shoulders. "Now we're not sure what's going on. But we want to fix it." She leaned forward, toward the man in behind the desk, imploring him. He found it interesting that her husband automatically shifted his arm from where it rested on the back of her chair so that he could rub a quick caress up and down her spine. "We used to enjoy each other. All the time. We wanted to do things because the other one enjoyed them. And their happiness made it fun for the other one."

"Well, that and the witty sarcasm," Michael interjected. He couldn't possibly see the quick sidelong look and flashing grin that crossed his wife's face before she focused on the paid professional again. But that, too, was taken down in his observations. It seemed they did, indeed, enjoy each other's commentary.

"Can you help us?" she asked simply.

"I'm not certain you need help at all," he told her softly. "But since I _do_ accept your insurance plan, and they _do_ reimburse us well for our time, I'm willing to help you work through this time period. Although I do want to tell you that sometimes marriages go through these phases. And a lot of times the kinks get worked out just by waiting them out."

An hour later he straightened his legal pad, precisely put down the pen in his hand and tucked the one behind his ear into his shirt pocket. "Okay. Here's where we stand. You've been married a little over three years. Been trying to get pregnant-with differing attention to the project-for about a year and a half. Started having...interferences...with your careers and marriage not long after you got married." He pursed his lips. "And you dated for how long before that?"

"Um, we actually had feelings for each other pretty soon after we met," Cami told him. She bit her lip but her eyes sparkled. "You know, that instant hit of adrenaline when you meet somebody? I guess it was about a year after that that we actually started seeing each other. Another six months for us to admit that we were dating-"

"We've been sleeping together, which is my definition of a relationship, since Christmas six years ago," Michael interrupted.

"Where does that fit into your timeline?" Dr. Perry asked Cami.

She grinned. "Somewhere catching a glimpse of each other by the coffee machine and our first official out-in-public, dressed-up-and-holding-hands date."

"The second time we actually spoke," her husband added for clarification.

"Which was when?"

He exaggerated a thinking face, frowning and wagging his head back and forth. "Around Christmas six years ago."

"Good grief," the doctor sighed. He smiled as he shook his head. "You know, really and truly, after about three years a couple's sex life changes."

"But it's not just bedroom," Michael told him. "It's everything. I mean, do I hand her a coffee cup every morning because it's a habit or because it's the thoughtful thing to do? Does she iron a shirt for me when she irons her own simply because she asked if I wanted her to for the first six months we lived together and every time the answer was yes or because she really thinks that I have no taste and wants me to represent her well out in public?" She pinched the soft flesh behind his knee.

Perry sighed again. "It's called routine for a reason. And it is one because first you started an action out of thoughtfulness and cooperation. Then you became used to it and it became automatic. Would you notice if she didn't iron a shirt for you?"

"By now if there wasn't a shirt hanging behind the door when I get out of the shower I'd go make sure she hadn't fallen and hit her head or been kidnapped by aliens or something."

"Do you still go through the same motions?"

"What do you mean?" Cami asked.

"When you used to ask him if he wanted a shirt ironed what would he say?"

She shrugged. "He'd make the polite 'you don't have to if you don't want to, I can iron my own, but I need one so leave the iron plugged in' kind of noises."

"So you knew he needed a shirt?"

She nodded.

Michael hooked an ankle over the opposite knee and leaned forward. "She'd always ask if I had anything in mind, what pants I wanted to wear, if I needed something dressier or casual. Now if I'm going to wear a suit or jeans or something out of the ordinary I usually tell her before I get in the shower."

"Do you tell her thank you?"

Michael frowned. He looked down at Cami. "I don't know..."

She shrugged up at him. "I know you used to. You used to come downstairs still buttoning your shirt-"

Now her husband smiled. "You'd still be ironing your clothes." He glanced up at the doctor. "She'd be wearing a slip or her slacks and a camisole or just a bra with her pants. I used to come up behind her and kiss her neck. She always smells so good-she showers with this creamy stuff and-" he caught the amused expression on the shrink's face.

"And now?"

He shook his head thoughtfully. "I guess I don't remember to do that stuff anymore."

"When was the last time you kissed your wife?"

Another slow head shake. "I honestly don't remember."

"Because it's become one of those small things that you do without thinking or because it's limited in occurrence? You don't remember because it's been so long?"

"I just don't know," the Irishman admitted. He looked at his wife.

She, too, lifted her eyebrows and shook her head.

"Okay. Homework. Let's find out."

"How did you come to seek out my help?" the psychiatrist asked halfway through their first session.

"Michael came by your name and we checked you out," Cami told him hesitantly.

Michael came to the rescue. "I was talking to our priest at O'Malley's a couple of weeks ago. He recommended you, you accept PD insurance, it seemed like a match made in heaven."

"So you were actively seeking guidance at the time. Or it just came up that I do couple's counseling."

Michael shifted his head back and forth on his shoulders. "I guess we'd kind of talked about it. It's not that we don't talk. It's just that we can't seem to fix what's wrong with us," he volunteered.

"We'd thought about looking for something through the church. We're signed up for a retreat in the spring. But when your name came up it seemed like a waste not to try something now."

"And you've been trying for a baby the whole way through this?" the shrink asked.

Now Cami moved her jaw back and forth. "We didn't get back on the pill or anything, but it hasn't been the most romantic stretch of time for us. We've both had a couple of really consuming cases. Michael's taken on a lot of extra responsibility at the station." She shrugged. "Sometimes it just seems like we're rubbing each other the wrong way. That we don't know how to be easy with each other anymore. First it was trying to have a baby. And the pressure to just go for it all the time. Now?" Another shrug. She looked at Michael. He, too, lifted his shoulders. "Now we're not sure what's going on. But we want to fix it." She leaned forward, toward the man in behind the desk, imploring him. He found it interesting that her husband automatically shifted his arm from where it rested on the back of her chair so that he could rub a quick caress up and down her spine. "We used to enjoy each other. All the time. We wanted to do things because the other one enjoyed them. And their happiness made it fun for the other one."

"Well, that and the witty sarcasm," Michael interjected. He couldn't possibly see the quick sidelong look and flashing grin that crossed his wife's face before she focused on the paid professional again. But that, too, was taken down in his observations. It seemed they did, indeed, enjoy each other's commentary.

"Can you help us?" she asked simply.

"I'm not certain you need help at all," he told her softly. "But since I _do_ accept your insurance plan, and they _do_ reimburse us well for our time, I'm willing to help you work through this time period. Although I do want to tell you that sometimes marriages go through these phases. And a lot of times the kinks get worked out just by waiting them out."

An hour later he straightened his legal pad, precisely put down the pen in his hand and tucked the one behind his ear into his shirt pocket. "Okay. Here's where we stand. You've been married a little over three years. Been trying to get pregnant-with differing attention to the project-for about a year and a half. Started having...interferences...with your careers and marriage not long after you got married." He pursed his lips. "And you dated for how long before that?"

"Um, we actually had feelings for each other pretty soon after we met," Cami told him. She bit her lip but her eyes sparkled. "You know, that instant hit of adrenaline when you meet somebody? I guess it was about a year after that that we actually started seeing each other. Another six months for us to admit that we were dating-"

"We've been sleeping together, which is my definition of a relationship, since Christmas six years ago," Michael interrupted.

"Where does that fit into your timeline?" Dr. Perry asked Cami.

She grinned. "Somewhere catching a glimpse of each other by the coffee machine and our first official out-in-public, dressed-up-and-holding-hands date."

"The second time we actually spoke," her husband added for clarification.

"Which was when?"

He exaggerated a thinking face, frowning and wagging his head back and forth. "Around Christmas six years ago."

"Good grief," the doctor sighed. He smiled as he shook his head. "You know, really and truly, after about three years a couple's sex life changes."

"But it's not just bedroom," Michael told him. "It's everything. I mean, do I hand her a coffee cup every morning because it's a habit or because it's the thoughtful thing to do? Does she iron a shirt for me when she irons her own simply because she asked if I wanted her to for the first six months we lived together and every time the answer was yes or because she really thinks that I have no taste and wants me to represent her well out in public?" She pinched the soft flesh behind his knee.

Perry sighed again. "It's called routine for a reason. And it is one because first you started an action out of thoughtfulness and cooperation. Then you became used to it and it became automatic. Would you notice if she didn't iron a shirt for you?"

"By now if there wasn't a shirt hanging behind the door when I get out of the shower I'd go make sure she hadn't fallen and hit her head or been kidnapped by aliens or something."

"Do you still go through the same motions?"

"What do you mean?" Cami asked.

"When you used to ask him if he wanted a shirt ironed what would he say?"

She shrugged. "He'd make the polite 'you don't have to if you don't want to, I can iron my own, but I need one so leave the iron plugged in' kind of noises."

"So you knew he needed a shirt?"

She nodded.

Michael hooked an ankle over the opposite knee and leaned forward. "She'd always ask if I had anything in mind, what pants I wanted to wear, if I needed something dressier or casual. Now if I'm going to wear a suit or jeans or something out of the ordinary I usually tell her before I get in the shower."

"Do you tell her thank you?"

Michael frowned. He looked down at Cami. "I don't know..."

She shrugged up at him. "I know you used to. You used to come downstairs still buttoning your shirt-"

Now her husband smiled. "You'd still be ironing your clothes." He glanced up at the doctor. "She'd be wearing a slip or her slacks and a camisole or just a bra with her pants. I used to come up behind her and kiss her neck. She always smells so good-she showers with this creamy stuff and-" he caught the amused expression on the shrink's face.

"And now?"

He shook his head thoughtfully. "I guess I don't remember to do that stuff anymore."

"When was the last time you kissed your wife?"

Another slow head shake. "I honestly don't remember."

"Because it's become one of those small things that you do without thinking or because it's limited in occurrence? You don't remember because it's been so long?"

"I just don't know," the Irishman admitted. He looked at his wife.

She, too, lifted her eyebrows and shook her head.

"Okay. Homework. Let's find out."


	6. homework

"You want us to try to keep track of when we kiss and why?" Michael asked.

"Nope. I want you to pretend that your priest and your mother-in-law just moved in. And you're fifteen. No kissing. No snuggling in public rooms. No being in a room where the other one isn't completely dressed."

"What?" Cami was skeptical.

"Trust me. I do this for a living. One week."

"We're supposed to basically pretend that we're not married and not intimate for a week?"

He nodded. "Nothing you wouldn't do at your mother's dinner table. For one week."

"Define dressed," Michael requested in a wondering voice.

"Underwear, shirt, pants. Socks and shoes are optional. Unless you find the sight of each other's toes uncontrollably erotic. In which case you probably want to cover them up as well."

"Even bed? Do we get to sleep together?"

"What do you normally wear to bed?"

"To bed or before bed? I guess I put on boxers after my shower. Maybe a t shirt or some sweats if it's cool or I'm going to be downstairs. Cami does the same thing. Clean undies and either a tank top or one of my soft shirts. Shorts or flannel pants if it's early and she's in the front of the house. But if we're just piled up watching TV we don't worry about it a whole lot."

"And that's in the time between you changing out of work clothes-getting a shower-and when you actually go into the bedroom?"

Michael shrugged and nodded.

"And you spend most of that time together-in the same room or in the same basic area-together on the couch, for example?"

"Most of the time," Cami told him. "There are days that he's reading the paper or one of us is on the computer or has gotten into a book or is just wiped out and goes on up to bed. But a lot of the time we hang out together."

"You differentiate between what you wear to bed and what you wear before bed?" the doctor asked.

Cami cut her eyes sideways and blushed. Her tongue darted out to run over her teeth.

Michael had to come clean. "I tend not to wear anything to bed." He nudged Cami. "And if she's wearing pants or has pulled on a sweater or sweatshirt over her camisole they almost always come off before she gets between the sheets, too. We're pretty much used to sleeping skin-to-skin, even if there's no sex involved," he told the other man.

Perry nodded for a long time, considering.

"Well," he said finally. "We'll let that slide for right now I guess, until we see how this other works. But other than the time you actually spend in bed asleep or trying to sleep I want it kept clean and rated G. As in you just signed up for religious life clean. Nothing that would cause Victorian era mamas to faint."

"You got it, doc," Michael said.

"Okay, then." He rose, extending his hand. "It was a pleasure meeting you. Let's plan to meet back next week and see what we've discovered."

What they discovered was that they actually had a lot more contact than they'd thought. Tuesday morning saw them sharing a shower. Wednesday night they didn't make it through loading the dishwasher without somehow ending up pressed against each other. Friday afternoon Michael caught her in the impound yard and they made love in the back of a wrecked police cruiser.

"How'd it go?"

"Honestly," Michael began, pausing to grin at his wife, "when you told us we had to go a week without kissing I didn't think it would be a big deal. I thought the romance was gone in our marriage and that if we weren't having sex we weren't doing the other stuff either. But it turns out that we reach for each other _all _the _time_. All day long. We kept my niece for my brother and sister-in-law and finally we had to come up with something to tell her, because I'd lean into Cami and then remember, or she'd put up her hand or touch my chest and I'd go '_shit'_ and Anna would look up to see what was wrong. It was hysterical."

Cami nodded, a pleased smile on her face. "We didn't make it a week. We didn't make it more than three days. We decided last Friday night to start Saturday morning. I hadn't realized how comfortable I am with Michael's body. I constantly reach out to touch him, to lean against him or sit on his lap or...anything. I found out that I still check out his ass while he's pulling on his jeans and still watch his eyes when I touch him. And I really like what I see."

"Michael?"

"Have you seen my wife? Hell, yeah, I like what I see. And feel and hear and taste. And I want connubial rights back. I'm too old to have guilt about copping a feel in a dark corner."

"Copping many feels this week?"

"We kept a little one last weekend. Dick and Jane got back in on Tuesday. By Tuesday morning we couldn't stand not to spend some alone time together. So we compromised and locked the bathroom door for a while."

"Saw each other naked, did you?"

"We were too close together to see much, so don't worry about it too much old man," Michael told him.

Dr. Perry laughed long and loud. "You two are too much. Are you happier with where you are? Satisfied that even though there are gaps in the marriage that the webbing is still good and strong?"

Both nodded.

He blessed them with the sign of the cross. "Go forth and sin no more. Be young, happy, working-class married people with distractions and ruts and true love for one another."

"Thank you, doctor." she told him as she rose.

"Thank you, doctor," Michael added as he pressed his hand to her back to guide her away from the chairs.

"Have fun."

Michael winked at him.


End file.
